


hollowed

by curtailed



Category: Hiveswap, Homestuck
Genre: Blood and Violence, Crapsack Alternia, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Electrostimulation, Emotion Play, Emotional Manipulation, Forced Orgasm, Hostage Situations, M/M, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Psychological Torture, Quadrant Confusion, Rape Fantasy, Rebellion, Suicide Attempt, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:29:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22080346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curtailed/pseuds/curtailed
Summary: Xefros' and Dammek's moirallegiance has long been crumbling apart, and it's not helped in the least when one of them unearths a catastrophic confession. It's a relationship tested by rebellion all around, shown utterly no mercy by their home, and even spat upon by its own members.That is, until Xefros is captured by the Empire. And Dammek learns the hard way what it means for a pair of moirails to be torn apart.
Relationships: Dammek/Xefros Tritoh, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 56





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unedited and unbeta'ed.
> 
> just wanted to clear out my drafts a little -- this is my first toeing into Hiveswap.
> 
> also, this pairing is underrated and full of fucked-upness potential.
> 
> please note the tags! The non-con is NOT going to be between Dammek and Xefros, although this chapter contains...like, a lot of messed-up shit. You've been warned.
> 
> EDIT: spelling, minor plot errors
> 
> EDIT 2: bumped up adult age to nine sweeps. They're both eight.

XT: im still not sure with this

A?: n0 pr0blem we can g0 0ver y0ur tetrarchs plan again

A?: me T and C will secure the base from the inside

T?: then ii'll contact you once we have the control room down.

C?: AFTER THAT IT PRETTY MUCH BOILS DOWN TO YOU, ?C, AND G? PROVIDING TROLLPOWER THROUGH THE SIDE ENTRANCES.

C?: WE'D INCLUDE ?T HERE, BUT...

C?: YOU KNOW.

C?: HE KIND OF GOT FUCKED OVER TWELVE WAYS FROM LAST PERIGEE A FEW WEEKS AGO?

C?: A?, SORRY IF I WAS BEING BLUNT.

A?: its fine

A?: speaking 0f which the tetrarchs 0nline

T?: we'll leave you alone then.

A? has left the messaging board.

T? has left the messaging board.

C? has left the messaging board.

XT: hey

??: h0w'd it g0.

XT: think were all following your stuff pretty well

XT: i mean im not completely down with it all the way

XT: but

XT: you made it

XT: so it should be all good X:)

??: ...y0u realize that's 0ne oF the stupidest mindsets t0 have, right?

??: just blindly F0ll0w s0me0ne's 0rders with0ut ever even questi0ning?

XT: sorry

XT: tetrarch

?? has made the chat PRIVATE

XT: ?

??: we need t0 talk.

XT: ...we are?

??: in pers0n.

The tetrarch doesn't waste any time. In minutes he's knocking away at your hive door with enough force that even your lusus begins stirring. You quickly relax Slothdad back to slumber, noting the lighting outside -- it's almost daybreak, the moons hazy blurs on the horizon. You wager you have hours left.

"Xefros."

"Sorry, sorry, I'm coming." You stumble through the living room, trying to squash down the chills that creep up your spine at the sight of the Heiress staring at you with cold, fuchsia eyes. The tree's been getting outgrown again; you remind yourself to clip the uppermost leaves with your lusus when you've got the time. 

You peer through the front door slots; standing outside, half-covered in shadow, half in pink-green moonlight, is your moirail. You can count the number of times he actually knocked on your front door as opposed to just slipping in through the windows and berating you for not keeping up with hive security. Whatever's going to happen -- and your stomach clenches at what you think _might_ happen, if you're guessing correctly -- it's serious. It's dead serious if he's giving you a heads-up on it.

You let him in.

It always makes you flush a little in embarassment when he spots the photo you have of him on the adjacent wall. You know for sure he doesn't have any photos of you, and yet you subconsciously memorialize him, hanging photos of you two in the hallway upstairs. There's one he doesn't know about, and one that you swear on your grubhood you will never tell him -- it's a candid one of him sleeping, shades off his face, and you just -- he's not yelling at you or snarking at you or _anything,_ he's just soft and relaxed in that moment, and currently the photograph's situated under your recuperacoon. You'll never tell him. 

"Hey," you say slowly, testing the waters. If you catch him at the wrong mood he might just turn away from you, dismiss your greeting as background noise. You hate it when he does that, but he probably has his reasons. "Did you want to...uh, talk about something? Anything?"

"Sure," he replies listlessly. 

"I guess...I mean, let's just move to the living room. I've got grub juice."

"Okay."

Wow, something's gotten into him. For a moment you wonder if you should draw closer -- _he'd probably smell horrible, or maybe he'd smell like the scent he has when he actually uses the ablutions -- the citrus-cream smell, that one --_ but he's already trudging his way to your living room, slumping down onto the couch. He doesn't even take off his shoes. He's tired, and you don't know why, and so much of you wants to lie down in the rather small space besides him and throw your arms around his hoodie, the way you used to do it, and he'd stroke your horns and mumble something like _glad you're okay too_ , but those days feel like a million sweeps ago. Now you don't even know if you have the courage to poke at his shoulder. You'd blame the rebellion for making his eyes shadowed, his face thinner, his horns duller, but in the depth of your bones you know it's something else.

And you wonder if it's _you_ he's losing rest over.

"Tetrarch," you say, gently handing him a can of juice. He rolls the bottle between his hands, letting his fingers cool on the sweet stickiness, but doesn't pop it open. "So -- I -- what did you want to talk about?"

He stares at you -- at least you think he does, you can't be sure behind the shades -- and nods.

"C'mere." He sits up and pats the cushion besides him. Your heart flutters a little at the gesture; without hesitation you're sitting besides him, acutely too aware that your shoulders are only inches apart. Maybe if you leaned over enough he'd let you rest your head on his neck, let him play with your hair -- annd he's talking again, and you flush those thoughts straight down the sewer.

"We're both about to be nine," he mumbles.

"Yeah."

"You scared?"

 _That you'll be leaving me,_ but you don't voice that thought out loud. "I mean, kind of? I don't really want to go off to space and kill other aliens. Seems kind of pointless."

"It is," he agrees, lifting a hand to rub at your left horn. Your whole body stills, your heart pounding against your ribs, and you're not _supposed_ to be this excited when he does anything remotely pale to you but you can't help it -- you instantly lean into his touch, letting warmth shudder down every muscle and sinew. He's barely cooler than you, being a bronzeblood, and your skin prickles up in goosebumps.

He continues to stroke the membrane, unaware of your inner turmoil. "But -- you're eight now, Xefros, you know what's going to happen."

"I...do?"

"Drones." He stops touching your horn, his hand falling back down into his lap. You try not to stare at his fingers desperately. His other hand clenches tightly around the can of grub juice, fingers leaving wet, condensation smears across the metal. "They just issued the buckets yesterday."

You stare at him in horror.

Sometimes you forget Dammek's just a wiggler, just like you, especially when he's up on the rebel meeting tables and just stamping out how exactly they're going to dismantle the Heiress' reign, how they're going to reconstruct Alternian society until it's egalitarian for everyone, until blood color is rendered worhtless -- but he's just a wiggler too, just a troll that likes music and watching you play Stickball (and doesn't that just give you the warmest, fuzziest feeling) and messing around with your hoverboard -- no, _his,_ it's his now -- and -- and -- _ordinary things._ Very much like you. 

"Tetrarch -- "

"You got anyone in your quadrants?"

He _knows_ the answer to that one. For the past sweep there's been some trolls that caught your eye -- there's another nice rustblood that lives several hives down the street, there's an orangeblood that shows up to Dammek's meetings and gives you the sharp, wry grin that always leaves you a little flustered -- but each time, _each_ time, Dammek's always hovering near you, watching you even when he isn't, and to let another troll in your quadrants -- when you've already got a perfect one, one that fills every gap of your life -- seems...

 _Like a betrayal,_ you guess.

"Just you," you whisper.

His face is unreadable. "So you're saying..."

"Y-Yeah. I don't have any...I can't -- " you stare resolutely at your toes now, this strange mix of despair and frustration bubbling acidly in your stomach. "I don't -- tetrarch..."

"You've got up to two days to find someone flush and someone else pitch."

"I know," you murmur. Then the thought strikes you, rings inside you like a great bell tolling for your death, and you _swear_ the faintest of copper flushes across his cheeks as you turn to fully face your moirail.

"What about you?"

"Filled a flush bucket this evening," he says, and you think he looks _ashamed_ of looking at you. That's why he was so tired when he showed up to your hive. You can't pinpoint the sudden tightness in your stomach at hearing his words, like someone had swiftly and violently uppercut you below the ribs, and you wonder --

"Who -- ?"

"You don't know them."

Right. Why would he ever tell you, anyhow. You imagine someone else straddling him, touching his horns in a way you wish you could, treasuring him with light, gentle kisses across his face and fangs -- and previously, you're the only one that touches him in any way passable, able to lull him into a drowse by sensation alone, and now he's --

_corrupted_

but you don't dare say that.

"Okay," you say lightly, trying to ignore how much your voice trembles. "So -- so what, you here to give me directions, I mean -- like whatever, right? I've got 24 hours to pail twice and I've never even touched anyone -- " _except you, it's always just been you --_ "and you can't exactly help me either here." It's not uncommon for moirails to help fill out a flush bucket, especially when the line between pale and red is so easily blurred. Pitch is infinitely harder: to stir up true, caliginous hatred takes _some_ interval of time, not just a scoop of basic empty pity. It's easy to feel sorry for someone. It's harder to _admire_ someone for their depravity.

Dammek just stares at you.

"You're...here to help me fill a pitch bucket."

"If you don't want to, that's fine," and his tone is so emotionless, so flat, and that's the last thing you want tonight. "But you don't have that much time, bro. I'm trying to help you."

_Like everything else, huh._

You wonder how long he's been thinking on this. You wonder if he specifically chose a redrom partner so he didn't have to touch you in _that_ way -- maybe he's aware of your feelings, messed up and confusing and ambiguous, and he doesn't want anything to do with you. Maybe it's his way of saying everything's over --

 _No, Xefros, you're just overreacting. He's trying to_ help _you. He said so himself._

"Okay," you repeat. At this angle you can see your own reflection in his shades. "Alright. Uh, hit me with it then. Not _actual_ hit, just -- let's get it over with." You're not sure how he'll be able to stir up enough hatred in either of you in such a short span of time, not when you couldn't hate him even if it killed you --

_could you?_

and he doesn't hate you, since he's trying to help you, since he's your _moirail._ He can't hate you.

He...

He can't.

"Alright," the tetrach says, clapping his hands together. "Let's do this." His tone has changed; now it's sharper, more brisk, like he's about to order some peons around. Out of his sylladex you see him withdraw a single, slightly-rusted pail, the spade stamped on its side slightly faded in print. It drops to the floorboards with a _clang._

"You have a safeword?"

"W-What?" you instinctively draw back from him. "Wait -- _right_ now? I -- I thought -- "

"We don't have much time, man, at least not for you." He nods toward the sunrise. "Hurry up, Xef. We don't have all night."

Is he _trying_ to make you hate him? It's not working -- you love him too much. You'd die for him in an instant. 

You've only touched yourself before, and you've never kissed anyone else -- still, you can see Dammek getting impatient. Restless. He wants to get this over with as quickly as possible.

"Safeword," he repeats.

"Uh -- um -- " you glance around the living room quickly, trying not to stall -- "er...stickball. Yeah. Stickball."

"Stickball, huh."

"...Yeah."

"Cute," he comments, and a mortified blush crawls up your neck. He doesn't call you any adjectives these days, apart from the list of negative ones -- _slow, stupid, annoying --_ and now he's sitting lazily at the end of the couch, none of the previous urgency present in his frame. "Hey. Get over here."

You scoot over to get closer --

"Get in my lap."

Okay. Okay. You can do this. You shuffle closer and straddle his lap, let your knees brush against his hipbones. His face is just inches from yours. You reach to pluck off his shades, your arm shaking from the sheer _temerity_ , but his hand flies up and closes harshly around your wrist, claws digging into your skin.

"Don't touch them."

"I'm sorry," you instantly respond, and wince at yourself. This is supposed to be _pitch_ \-- fuck, fuckfuck _fuck_ there's no way you can do this, there's no way you can keep up any glimmer of caliginous -- your heart pounds a mile a minute, your mouth drying up like you're in a desert. You should touch him. You should touch him, right? At least stir up some intimacy --

He lets go of your wrist and yanks your head back by your hair, and _holySHIT_ his mouth's pressing to the front of your throat, just below your chin, fangs scraping over skin --

Something electric jolts down your veins, straight to your groin. You feel like the skin where his lips and tongue touch you are ablaze. Your pulse hammers frantically under his mouth, and before you're even aware of it a soft, shaky moan escapes from you, like you're sighing. Like a burden's being relieved. No one's _ever_ touched you like this before, prod you toward the path of arousal, and then here's your _moirail_ making your mind go fizzy and blank, kissing and mouthing at your neck like it's the elixir of life. You try to -- _stop him? tug him closer?_ \-- but your hands just rest on his shoulders instead, idly tracing the curve of bone. He's holding your head up now, steadily working down your neck, and you hear him gasp roughly as he reaches your collarbone.

"Tetrarch -- " you don't even know what you're pleading for, but subconsciously you've been rolling your hips against his and this sharp, painful warmth's oozing into your abdomen like heated water. You feel shivery and sensitive all over. He's trying to tug down the collar of your shirt, his mouth resting in the hollow of your throat.

"Dammek, I -- "

His hands slip up your shirt, tracing your spine. Then he sinks his claws in and _drags_ down, and even if it doesn't draw blood the pain has you arching your back and moaning even louder, and your thighs are trembling in your effort to stay astride. Your hands touch his cheeks, his ears, his eyelids, treasuring him, mapping him solely by touch. 

Then his hands are clenching around your ass and you can't help it -- your moan this time is rough and breathy, like you're about to lose all air from your lungs, and your hips jut forward -- something's stirring in your crotch, this lazy movement of heat and wet, wet arousal --

He shoves you off the couch.

The surprise of it startles you more than the impact; you land on your knees, but before you can stand up the tetrarch's _twisting your wrists_ behind you, stretching and bending your arms in a way it's probably not supposed to. Fabric loops around your wrists; he's _tying you up,_ forcing you back down on your legs, and before you can protest he's licking up a line of saliva up your neck, right below your ear, and your garbled shout of pain stutters out into a groan instead. His lips trace the nape of your neck.

"Dammek -- "

"Shut the _fuck up_ ," he snarls, his breathing noticeably ragged. He mouths furiously at the junction of your neck and shoulder like he's trying to tear you down into bared nerves. The rim of his glasses press into your jaw. "Stop fucking _whining,_ you desperate, needy --"

His other hand gropes at your grubscars, palming at your crotch -- "always following me around, like a little stunted _dog,_ if I told you to jump your miserable sack of skin wouldn't think twice, you pathetic -- "

He pops open the button of your jeans.

"Pathetic," he repeats coldly into your ear. You don't know why you're reacting like this, why every word starts up firecrackers in your gut. All you're aware of is how warm his fingers are as he kneads and massages the front of your underwear, where it's already beginning to stain from your arousal. You wonder if he's just going to stroke your bulge, but then there won't be enough material. Hell, maybe he'll bend you over and finger your nook, thrust at the spot until you're a quivering, sobbing puddle beneath him, and somehow that image makes you _burn_ with hot, flaming guilt. You're not supposed to imagine anything. 

His fingers slip inside your underwear.

You think you scream, then, throwing your head back, and he takes the opportunity to bite and _suck_ at your throat until you're sure there's going to be a hickey come dawn. There's absolutely nothing gentle in his motions, your bulge tangling slipperily around his fingertips as he strokes roughly at you. You've never felt _so much heat_ before, thrumming through your every nerve like you're sitting atop a stereo, and you're barely able to comprehend what he's saying to you -- that you're worthless, useless, more abysmal than seadwelling filth, that he wishes you were culled when you hatched --

 _Stickball,_ your mind screams at you to say, _just say it. Trust him. He'll stop, he'll wait for you, he loves you, he's in love with you --_ but you _can't,_ not when his hand traces the outline of your nook and your folds clench and glisten, desperate for stimulation, and you realize you're practically humping his fingers like a dog trying to mate. He's slipping them in one by one, and if he had done so gently you would've believed it was just for this pailing, just _helping_ you, but he plunges it in and pain and pleasure rock through you like you've plugged your whole body through an electrical outlet. Tears trickle out of your eyes from the intensity as he curls his two fingers inside you, touching you _right there_ \-- holy shit, _holy fuck,_ you're practically begging him to stop, to continue, to keep touching you like the worthless whore you are, to never stop and pull away. As long as he pays attention to you. 

He withdraws his fingers all at once from your nook, and you suck in long, sharp breaths, trying to calm your heartrate. You must be an absolute mess by now, with your hair sticking in all directions and saliva and tears coating your chin, bite marks crossing your throat and shoulders everywhere, clothes stained and messy. A whimper bubbles out of your thorax, but then Dammek's shoving his fingers into your mouth; you taste yourself, bitter and stale, but he forces his fingers deeper until your tongue's lapping at your own material like you're a troll dying of thirst. Your moaning is uncontrollable now as you lick at his fingers desperately, wantonly, your ass pushing into the front of his thighs. You can't stop. You should. You should tell him to stop, this isn't what moirails _do,_ but then what does that make you -- just one of so many trolls vying for the tetrarch's attention, his approval, just one of many --

"Wow," Dammek says, releasing you so that you fall face-first onto the ground. "Damn, Xef, didn't know you were into this shit. Who am I kidding: you're practically a pailfuck here, aren't you? How many people have you sucked off, huh?"

Your cheeks burn with shame. He's too close to the target; you wonder if he _knows_ what you think about in your coon sometimes, just kneeling and having his bulge stuffed deep into your throat, and the thought of him _watching_ you the whole time through some shitty camera has your fluid stain your hand in hot, painful waves, mixing into the sopor around your body. 

"No one," you mumble against the floor. Your ass is up and exposed to the world: you hear him unzipping his pants, peeling them off, and then he's doing you the same -- you wish he'd untie your wrists, but then he's yanking down your own jeans and wresting them off your legs. He flings them aside and you get the first evidence that he's getting something out of this too, something he can't deny with words or expressions; his bulge presses against your leg, shifting and curling lazily along your skin.

"Didn't hear that," he drawls. You try to glance back at him but he grabs your hair and forces your face back into the floor, smushing your nose and mouth into the wood, and for a terrifying moment you think you won't be able to breathe. 

"No one," you repeat, struggling to breathe in air. His bulge brushes along your nook, still wet from his earlier ministrations, and you gasp a little. "No one, tetrarch, I swear, I never looked at anyone that way -- you said so, _you said so,_ I won't look at anyone that way -- "

"But?"

"Just _you,_ " you whisper miserably. The truth crashes down horribly into your guts; you won't _ever_ feel anything for _anyone,_ not when the tetrarch still breathes and lives and gets to touch you like this. Not when he slams his hips against yours and his bulge just _touches that spot again_ and you're nothing but a puppet to him, your body to be manipulated and played with like a rubber toy. Something venemous swirls in the pits of your stomach, something you'll swear was at the heat of the moment but you _know_ better, it's been there when he turns away from you like you're nothing or ignores you or swipes at your stuff, sneers words at you in contempt, the way he'll just stare at you like your pan's leaked fluid when you try to kiss him good-day, and you _let_ him. You're probably stronger than him, given the chance, you're the one with psychics, and yet here he is, fucking you into the ground effortlessly, and he doesn't even want to _look_ at your face. 

"I -- " something's _breaking_ inside you, the revelation shaking you to your very core. His claws drag along your scalp; the other one's pinning your hip in place, letting him pound into you better. You're not crying from the pain. You're -- you're...

"I hate you."

The words are utterly foreign in your tongue. You think the tetrarch freezes up behind you, but there's no way he'd even give a shit.

"I _hate you,_ I _fucking_ hate you, I wish you were -- I wish you were dead, asshole," and it's _ugly_ , harsh, tearing outside your mouth -- but that's what he is, wasn't it? He _knew_ your feelings for him, that's why he chose this quadrant to fuck you in -- he wanted to see you unravel, to break apart into nothing. To prove you're nothing without him. "I -- "

"Xef -- "

" _SHUT UP!"_ You've _never_ screamed so loud in your life, not even when you're being fucked to an inch of your life. You want to die. You feel like you're drowning, this dizzying spiral sagging every bone down with a weight of a thousand worlds. "Why don't YOU SHUT UP, okay, shut your filthy, lowblooded _mouth --_ "

"Hey -- "

You're openly sobbing onto the floor now. You don't even give a shit on how much tears you're pouring onto the floorboards, how hard your hips are thrusting into empty air, all you know is that you _loathe_ him with every fiber of your being. 

"I hate you," you hiss out, barely recognizing your own voice. "I wish -- I _fucking_ wish I never met you. Never touched you. Wherever you touched me, I want to -- I want to cut it out, it's fucking disgusting, you touching your filthy, fucking hands over me like you actually give a damn, I want to _burn_ that skin off, I -- " your head's swirling, and at the moment you wished he'd just -- you don't know -- just shoot you through the back of your head with one his guns, cut off your tongue and stuff it down your throat. You wish you were dead so you never have to look at him. Never have him look at you again.

Your orgasm releases in you such intensity your limbs feel like they got liquified. Dimly you're aware that a bucket's being inserted under your hips -- not a single drop spilling -- and it's your degrading rust pouring into the receptacle, slathering the bottom and sides like piss-poor paint. You barely feel the tetrarch sliding out of you, touching at his own bulge, and when you turn to look at him...in the wane moonlight he looks...weary. Old. Like all life's being sucked out of his very marrow.

His copper streams out steadily, less messier than yours, swirling with your red.

You can only hear your heartbeart slowing down back to normal. Trembling, you tug at the cloth around your wrists, managing to pull one hand roughly free.

And then it hits you.

The pail's slurry is already catalyzing black -- the kind of black you've only heard stories about from the most legendary of kismesissitudes, like the Pirate Queen and her Orphaner, the kind where the hate spans sweeps and universes and burns like an unquenchable fire -- but they were _kismesis._ They were spademates. They weren't what you and Dammek were -- or _thought_ what you and the tetrarch were, in the very least, and you don't know what he's thinking, not when he's staring at the bucket like he's watching a worm crawl.

"Tetrarch," you hear yourself plead, your voice cracking and hitching in your throat, "Dammek, I didn't mean -- " you can't tear your eyes off the pail, not when the contents burn midnight-black.

He buttons up his pants with a detached sort of deftness that you haven't seen in a while. You think he glances at you -- noticing what a fucking mess you were, your tears still streaming from your eyes -- but he doesn't say a word. He picks up the bucket by the handle and shuffles it into his sylladex, not acknowledging whatever...whatever just happened.

Between the two of you.

You shakily try to stand up on your own legs, fumbling with your pants. He makes for the door.

"Dammek!" You grab at his arm, remorse rising in you like a tidal wave. You need to apologize, to yank them out of your guts until you're spent, to tell him how impossibly sorry you were. Your fingers close around his hoodie and he stills.

He slaps you.

It's not even a hard slap, just his fingers -- the same one he pushed into your nook -- smacking you against the cheek, smearing trails of your rust material across your face. The force, however, still turns your head, and in your state the blow feels magnified, amplified by a thousand times. You're staggering against the wall, cupping your cheek in your hand, and you're -- he's _never_ hit you before,that's a taboo among moirails, even the sickest of paleroms never _ever_ struck out at their palemate, no matter what happened, and he just -- he's standing at your door, he doesn't even _look_ guilty, just inspects his fingernails like he's got dirt on them and not your disgusting slurry. He just struck you like he was slapping a fly away.

"Stay the hell off of me," he says simply, like he's commenting about the weather.

The door slams shut then, the fury in his motions enough to root you where you stand. You cradle your face, watching his silhouette melt away into his hive's porch even as the sun rises, and you've never felt worser in your life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i...actually dig these two together? Like, I pretty much fell in mixed-feelings with this ship instantly. It's just got so much damn potential, like it's completely fucked-up and one-sided and so. much. stuff to write from. 
> 
> Also, shit does not get better from here. Or maybe it does. Who knows.
> 
> i'm eyeballing for around 6-7 chapters.


	2. Chapter 2

It'd be better if he never said anything to you later and just completely ignore you, because in a way it's still direct, focused attention -- albeit the inverted kind -- and you'd know you weren't the only the one that felt _something_ that night, that maybe something changed -- but then your tablet buzzes and his message is succinct:

??: 34-27 hivecell A, third d00r Fr0m the leFt.

That's all he has to say. For a moment you're tempted to really -- just -- let it go, hammer out how you're sorry, how fucked up you are, how fucked up _he_ is -- but you've still got a bucket to fill. 

The first bits of sunlight, prickly and painful, began to seep through the windowsill when you show up at Hivecell A. It's a series of smaller, compact hives squished together, a group of warmbloods and the occasional midblood swarming around in a disgruntled, chaotic mess around the rooms. You follow Dammek's directions and knock at the door, finding yourself standing before a greenblood female around the same age as you.

"Hey...?"

"Uh..." At a loss for words, you just repeat Dammek's directions back at her. Her eyes flare up with recognition. 

"You're in need of a flush pail too?"

"Yeah."

"Right. Come on in." The room inside is damp and dusty, but it's a welcome reprieve from the light outside. You should be scared of her, you think, watching her rummage around the drawers looking for a pail, but all you feel in your chest is a vague dullness like someone had clubbed your ribs. She doesn't ask what blood colour you are, or your deal with your quadrants, or whatever -- she does keep up a tiny stream of polite talk, commenting on the acid clouds near the goldblood sector, asking if you got any hobbies you like.

"Stickball." The word tastes sour in your mouth.

"Neat." She finally pulls out a pail and turns to you, motioning for you to get on the table. "I like tap dancing -- you have to be quick on your feet and everything. It's a pretty fun pastime."

"That's cool." Her smile is warm and genuine as she kneels before your feet.

"Okay. So. Your first time?"

 _No._ "Yes."

"No problem, it's also my first time." She's as nervous as you are, you realize, her hands shaking slightly as they rest on your thighs. "I think...hmm, alright, how 'bout I eat you out, and you return the favor? It'll be the quickest way."

She doesn't even _know_ you. She doesn't even know you, but she's walking it through with you, trying to make both of you comfortable, and Dammek -- 

your hands shake a little, but you're fine. You're fine.

"Okay."

It really must depend on the person, you realize, because the orgasm that coaxes you from is almost just a gentle tremble. You watch your material trickle into the pail slowly, remembering how Dammek took you from behind like an animal in heat, and your heart aches a little at the memory. You then trade places: you lick and kiss at her lower lips, tasting a bitter-metallic flavor on your tongue similar to the one Dammek shoved into your mouth.

_Dammek, dammek, dammek._

When her material joins the pail, it mixes and bubbles to become a -- almost colorless red, really, but there's enough hue to make it pass by drone standards. That's all there was to pailing. It doesn't always have to be magical, or stupendous, or _completely fucked-up_ , it's just one of many duties you have to perform in your life time. There's not supposed to be emotional baggage being carted along. There's a faulty sink in the corner of the room, and both of you taking turns washing off the worst of the trickle.

"I'll take care of it," she says, brushing your hand away when you reach for the bucket's handle. "Thanks, too. It wasn't bad."

"It wasn't," you echoed.

The two of you stand there a while, clothes slightly stained, something cold and dead beating in your stomach. She was nice, though. She had the decency to be kind with you, even if the pail you filled with Dammek was diametrically opposite in quadrant. She doesn't even know your name.

"I'm Xefros," you finally say, reaching a hand out to her. She grasps it warmly.

"Jhoeyy."

There's none of that awkwardness you'd normally associate with pailing. She slaps a lid over the bucket, wincing at the pale red drops that shake out, and escorts you to the door. The sun pulses faint gold behind the heavy curtains. At the threshold, both of you stand again in a deep silence, you shuffling your feet, her tugging at the collar of her shirt.

She finally breaks the quiet. "Here." 

You're about to ask her _what,_ and then she's leaning forward -- your muscles seize up reflexively, because the last face that was so close to yours belonged to someone that threw you on the ground and used you like a toy -- but all she does is brush her lips against your cheek, patting your open hand. When you glance down you find a piece of paper slipped between your fingers.

_jubilantConnoisseur_

"Talk to me sometime, okay?"

"Yeah." You feel your fingers curl around the paper, the staticky, fuzzy warmth in your chest practically alien to you. "Sure. No problem."

====

"What the hell's up with you?"

"Hm?"

"You're not saying anything." It's C talking, his voice rough and snappy as he takes a seat. The two other trolls tail him. The meeting hasn't started yet, but judging by today's turnout it's going to be relatively brief -- at most eight of you are present. It's understable; with drone season bearing down on the subgrub like some crazy, feral animal, most trolls are probably more concerned with how much shit they can stuff in a bucket by daybreak. That's the description C gives you, anyhow.

Tonight's just him, T, and A. They sit semi-awkwardly together, all three of them staring at you as you pick at your shirt. 

"I don't usually say stuff anyways," you finally reply, gazing hard at the desk. You don't know what the fuck you're going to do if the tetrarch walks through the door; maybe you'll do nothing. Maybe you'll cry and crumple into a mess of clothes. Maybe you'll just walk out, never looking back, and curl up in your 'coon afterwards and weep yourself to sleep.

"Seriously, you look like someone shat on your lusus," T says. A sits further out, not wanting much to do with this conversation. All three of them are amongst Dammek's most powerful soldiers, especially A and T -- their psychic powers are rumored to be unprecedented. It nails in the reminder that you can barely muster enough power to turn a doorknob, much less toss trolls around like they're candy pieces, and sometimes you wonder why you even come here. You're useless. You're fucking _worthless._ You wonder if it's the tetrarch's way of parading you around, mocking you for your waste of space, spitting upon you in discreet public, and the fury burns slow and hot and painful in your stomach.

"...buddy. Buddy. You okay?"

 _None_ of them are in a gogdamn quadrant with you. Jhoeyy was an absolute stranger. And yet they're giving you kindness freely, like talking about horn shape, and it's _not fucking difficult_ to talk to someone else like they're a living, breathing troll, and it's a concept your _moirail_ can't remotely grasp. When's the last time he's said something genuinely nice to you? When's the last time he touched you or talked to you like he actually gave a shit about you?

"It's nothing." You _swear_ you won't have yourself cry like a grub; Dammek's going to walk in any moment and you have to be solid stone, pure ice, not letting anything he say get into your head. He'll say _something._ It's either that, or you become nothing again. Dismissed from his attention. Irrelevant.

"...alright. Talk with us anytime if you want."

You nod stiffly.

"Serious, man. Can't have low morale hanging around you like a particularly bad stink cloud."

You nod a little harder. The conversation lapses back into a painful kind of silence, but it's something tolerable. You stare at the hard, cold edge of the table, wishing you could just cut your head open with it and let your pan leak out in handfuls of gooey mess, and then Dammek will _have_ to clean that up. Either that or he orders someone around to do it. You don't notice your hands trembling between your legs until the shaking rattles at your knees; any harder and you'd slip off the chair. You take quick, deep breaths through your nose instead, tracing the contours of the wall, the planes of the ceiling. Anything to distract your mind.

_Knock._

A single set of footsteps confirms your worst dread; it's just Dammek today, none of the tetrarchs in tow. The doorknob jiggles a bit; for an insane second you think of sealing it close, letting him twist at it endlessly in frustration, but that would be annoyingly petty even for you. 

_click_

"Tetrarch," A, T, and C automatically say, one deadpan, one slightly biting, one gruff. You don't open your mouth at all. No one's really _required_ to address anyone by rank in the units, since everyone's practically got gutter blood, but it's a habit instilled in the more martial soldiers. As a tetrarch's moirail, you technically don't have to address him with any superior title at all --

_but you did, last night. You did and you begged for him and you told him what you felt --_

"Hey." He seats himself in the opposite side of the table where all the seats are empty. A commander facing his soldiers. "T, can I get some quick intel on zone 5-B-7Y?"

"Just got it this evening. Wait, okay -- " T pulls out a mess of papers and files and plops it onto the tabletop. "Enemy encroachment. In a few nights they might be able to root out our weaponry Hub."

"It's not secured by the olivebloods?"

"Some are fleeing. I think the Empire's using terrorizing tactics, sir; they lynched a oliveblood in public as a warning, and burned a couple hives down."

"We can't let them get to the weaponry," C says.

"That's why I drew up the original plan," Dammek cuts in with a flare of irritation. "Whoever's commanding the raids at the moment, I've observed their pattern of attacks. They're conservative with their forces. If we manage to even threaten their main base, they'll branch off a sizable amount of their forces to retreat back."

"Couldn't they just get Empire supplements?"

"If they can teleport, sure." Dammek shrugs dismissively. "But we're drawing them into two fronts. They'll send their strongest soldiers after you three and whoever's in your squadron -- " he gesture to T, A, C -- "but your goal isn't to engage. Your goal is to retrieve the security codes."

"Right. W'bout Xefros, then?"

A ripple shivers down your spine as everyone turns to look at you -- including your moirail. He looks at you like he's looking at a chair in the room; no malice, no passion, no any emotion. Just a simple observance that there's _something_ taking up space and volume on the floor, casting a shadow. "The original plan is still intact."

You swallow and shift your gaze to the toes. The other members must've picked up on the weird tension between you two -- _understatement, what a fucking understatement_ \-- but none of them are willing to open their mouths about it. T drums his fingers along the table, the only sign that he's put off by the atmosphere. "Okay. Right. Anything else you want us to cover?"

"Anything you want to tell me, sure."

"I think we'll be fine." A stares over all of you with a glassy expression, her voice flat. "Can we depart now, _sir?_ "

"Sure. Thanks for the intel."

They slowly stand up and head towards the door; A first, then T, and finally C. He glances back at you but then shrugs a little, his face scrunched in worry. Some part of you urges your legs to stand and follow them, leave the room before you do something stupid, but your nerves can barely feel anything from how tense you are. You grip the edge of the chair instead and let your feet swing a little, garnering minimal comfort from the pendulum-esque motion as you listen to Dammek's chair scrape back.

Neither of you speak.

Footsteps pad softly away from you; the tetrarch's striding over to the computer desk at the corner, already booting up the monitor and circuit power as he sinks into the seat. He hasn't told you to leave. He hasn't spoken to you either, and you watch your fingers pale from how hard you're gripping your knees.

You should speak. You should say something.

The computer's whine finally calms down into a steady whir. It's a whir you've associated with his hive when you were younger; you'd be trying to clean up the absolute mess of his room, music blaring loudly at the speakers, and he'd swivel around in his chair and show you something he made, some random picture unearthed through his archives, and even you in your perpetual irritation of cleaning up had to crack a smile at whatever he showed you. You'd then climb to the roof with him, pizza in hand, drone-free nights gazing back at you with the soft glow of two moons. The memory feels so _old_ and long gone that you barely remember the finer details; only the hazy, fuzzy euphoria that briefly warms your abdomen like warm liquid pouring down your throat. 

Fingers begin tapping along the keyboard. You wonder if he's actually doing anything, or if he's purposely making noise to prove that _no,_ he doesn't want to talk to you, couldn't you get a damn hint on the way he's dragging his shoe back and forth along the floor and the clicking has become pointed and now he's practically slamming fingers down on the pad, typing with a raw ferocity that reminds you of a starving troll stuffing his face. Still, the miniature cacophony can't hide the tremor in your voice when you speak up.

His fingers slow, pause, as he registers that _you've_ said something. You wonder if it bears repeating. You can only spot the tines of his antler-horns poking up from the computer chair. He's typing casually now, almost normally, and you repeat what you said.

"I think we should break up."

A paralyzing sort of horror has rooted you to your seat. Your tongue feels bloated and swollen as you say the words, like each syllable is laden with poison, and your heart beats painful and erratic against your ribs. You lick your lips nervously, noting how parched they are, and your muscles tremble from how still you're trying to be. Ready to run at first sight. Sweat coats the back of your neck, slowly dripping down to your shoulder blades, and you try to tamper down your breathing. 

He turns his chair around.

There's still no expression in his face. You might as well told him you stubbed your toe, or you painted your hive door a different color. He stares at you, inscrutable behind the shades, and you wish you could swallow your tongue.

"Break up," he repeats, his voice emotionless.

You're _not_ going to scream. You're not going to jump up to your feet and cry and break down and wish he could comfort you, run his fingers through your hair -- you're going to stand slowly even as your knees wobbl violently, and the world rocks dizzily under your feet. You're going to say a few more things, you're going to walk out of this room, you won't let _him_ dictate or mess around with your life like you're some toy to him. Maybe you can find a troll that actually gives half a shit about you.

"That's what I said." You feel almost disassociated from your body, like you're speaking externally from a radio. "It's been -- I dunno, but we've been together pretty long. Maybe too long. And..." _gog,_ you think you'll pass out in five seconds if he keeps staring at you like that -- "...I'm not...interested in being your moirail. Anymore. It doesn't -- I -- " you take a quick breath, steeling your nerves. "I...I can't. It's too much for me -- and -- and -- I don't think it's anything for you. At all." You close your eyes briefly, praying you could just die on the spot, slaughtered like an unruly pig. Let your disgusting, filthy blood pool across the tiles of the floor. 

Silence.

You should go now. You've said your part, you haven't start sobbing like a freshly hatched grub, you're _fine_. You did it. It doesn't feel like a weight off your chest -- in contrast, it feels like a fist is squeezing all the air from your lungs -- but you'll live. You'll get over it. You'll get better without him, and maybe one day you can return to tentative friends like the era of _before_ and not now and certainly not after. Your claws are flat and blunt, but blood's welling up on your palms in how hard you're digging them into your skin, wet drops thinly coating over your fingertips. 

When you open your eyes again, he's still staring at you. The weight of his attention, direct and heavy, makes you want to cower behind the table. He's leaning a bit forward now, elbows on knees, hands cupping his face, and just _hours ago_ the same hands had been in your mouth and bulge and had struck at you, but now it's all clean. He must've washed his hands the second he got back hive. Scrubbed at them with disinfectant, with bleach, until every drop of your material swirled down an already-cluttered drain, washing you off like he hadn't vivisected you and torn your innards to pieces. 

"Come here," he says, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

Your feet already react before your mind catches up to the command. You walk at a steady pace to where he sits, each step sending a spike of _something_ up your spine and straight in your pan. Your heart's about to burst from your chest with sheer intensity. He straightens up as you near him, and from this angle he looks -- relaxed, really, like he's just watching the TV -- and only the set of his jaw gives any hint to how tense he is. You wonder if he's going to hit you again; just straight-up slam his fist into your nose and leave you battered on the floor. You wonder if you'd let him.

You don't have to listen to him.

Yet you find yourself standing a foot away from him, your hands still curled at your sides. Even in this proximity he's unreadable. It's _over._ It's over for both of you. He should be mad, he should be relieved, he should be feeling _something_ \--

_but if he didn't care at all in the first place, it wouldn't matter to him at all._

The thought roots you to where you stand, this sudden depression of lead that sinks from your brain to your toes, and it -- it _crushes_ you. There's nothing worser in the world than apathy, than mild indifference. If he hits you, it shows he gave a _damn_ about any of it all. You'd let him hit you. You'd let him pummel you, riddle you with bullets, until you're a mess of splat and gore across the floor, if it only meant he _registered_ your presence in any way.

So when his hand reaches up to your shirt, tugging your face closer to his, surprise short-circuits every fucking nerve.

His mouth is soft. It occurs to you that he never kissed you at all last night, not even when he threw you to the floor and tied you up like a hog. There's none of the viciousness from before -- his lips touch yours almost hesitantly, like he's waiting for permission, and when you don't push him away the kiss grows more heated, his tongue flicking along the seam of your lips. Some magnetic force pushes you closer, has your hands lift to

_shove him away_

cup his face, letting your thumbs trace across his cheekbones. You touch the muscles that make his face smile, or laugh, or any expression at all, letting your palms brush across the contours of his jaw. You're not supposed to -- you told him you didn't want thie quadrant anymore, you _knew_ he didn't give a shit about you -- and yet here you are, kissing him like you're about to drown, like it's the last time you ever do so.

Dammek sucks in a breath sharply, like he's trying to wheeze for air, and tugs you into his lap. The force sends his chair rolling back a few inches until it hits the desk, but by then he's got you straddling him, knees on either side of his thighs, and his hands aren't hesitant anymore. They slip under your shirt and stroke up your spine and you want to tear away from him, vomit across the ground, but instead you're making these pathetic, breathy moans as he mouths at your neck, your collarbone, just like the first time, but now he's being so _gentle_ and _red_ and it makes this bubbly warmth rush from your face to your groin. His fangs scrape close to your veins, and you full-out shudder, wishing he'd stop touching you -- that he continued to touch you -- wishing he could get _closer,_ just closer, not touch you at all, but you thought that all last time and he left you right after --

It can't be real. He just fucked you pitch hours ago, there's no way he's flipping the switch and letting those -- those _feelings_ \-- revert to something you crave, something you've been desperate ever since he laid eyes on you and smiled at you, the first time you've ever seen him, this deep, bottomless vat of _pity_ \-- but that's not what he wants from you. He's indulging you. He wants to keep you. He _knows_ how you feel for him, or what you don't feel, and he's not careless enough to lose the one person that actually wants to _touch_ him. 

"I -- " _Stop,_ your mind pleads, _stop using me, stop doing this_ \-- but your body translates it into clutching in his hair, letting you wrap your fingers around his horns. He gives a little moan at that, his lips parting slightly, and the rush of arousal makes you dizzy.

Then suddenly he's standing up and you stagger to the wall, trying to regain your balance, but then he's caging you against it and kissing you harder. The ferocity comes back, the same kind from last night, and his hands are slipping down to your thighs and hoisting you up. Stimuli hits all your nerves at once. You dig your heels around his waist, letting him push you up against the wall. The thought of him _spreading_ you -- letting you sink down and fuck yourself on his bulge, letting him do whatever the hell he wants to you -- makes your body curdle in arousal and shame. You're feeling too much and you don't know what he feels for you at all, and the whiplash in your head makes you grip at his shoulders harder. You _want_ him to do what he wants to you. It makes you sick, it makes you feel degraded, but you're obsessed with his touch. The mere idea of him touching anyone else -- of you being touched by anyone else -- has you return to his mouth, shoving your gasps down his throat --

You can't do this.

You _can't,_ it's going to kill, warring inside of you like a pair of rabid dogs. You have to -- 

You push him away.

He stumbles back several steps, his shades askew, and in a rare moment you're able to see at least one of his eyes. It's widening now, grey-bronze iris staring at you in -- confusion? anger? -- and you -- you just slump against the wall, already missing his touch, your breaths hard and fast as you expel them. Your knees threaten to buckle. You squeeze your eyes shut and count to three.

_One._

The tetrarch doesn't say anything. And it just confirms your belief further -- this wasn't _anything,_ nothing more than a last-ditch ploy to keep you where you're at, and you almost _fell for it._ If he just touched you harder, kissed you harder, you would've stayed.

You would've stayed in any quadrant. You would have stayed with him.

_Two._

"The hell, dude." Bitter indignation flares up in you -- _he's_ the one acting all pissed off, like you did some great injustice to him, and you're the one who's calm now. Roles reversed. You know exactly what to say. Your hands knot nervously in your pants, but you aren't afraid of him. You're the one that cut it off, after all.

_Three._

"Don't touch me again." You keep your voice steady even as your heart shrivels at your own words; frankly, you're surprised at the complete lack of emotion in your tone. "I'll -- well, okay, I can't kill you. Not with what I have. But I'll try. I _fucking swear_ on my life, Dammek, I'll -- " you look at him straight in the eye, watching this horrible mess of emotions cross his face, something raw and vulnerable and utterly priceless you've never seen before. "I'll try to. You _look_ at me wrong, and I'll do it."

You hold it in. You walk away, you don't turn around, you're out of the door and you close it, you make a respectable distance down the hallway -- and then you crumple. Your fingers are stained with pale red when press them over your eyes, your face damp and painful, and you cry with the force of something choking out their lungs. The salty, bitter sensation tears away at your organs, and all you can think of is that you _did it._ You came out alright. You said what you wanted to say, and you're not his anymore, and yet the thought only makes your heart twist harder.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh geez, sorry for the wait. This chapter's a bit shorter because of what's going to be upcoming (much longer chapters, btw)

C?: I'M THE ONLY WITH ABLE TO ACCESS THE COMMS RIGHT NOW. A AND T ARE DOING SOME HEAVY LIFTING.

C?: HOW'S YOUR SIDE GOING.

XT: its pretty quiet right now

XT: i thought you said thered be Xction duty guards around the entryway

C?: IS THERE NOT?

XT: not really

C?: HUH. OKAY.

C?: ARE YOU ALONE?

XT: ya i thought this was a solo scouting mission

XT: theres just two bluebloods standing guard

C?: DON'T ENGAGE WITH THEM.

XT: i wont

XT: ...

XT: i thought thered be more?

C?: NO, IT MAKES SENSE. THIS BASE SENT A LOT OF THEIR COMBAT TROOPS TO OUR OLIVEBLOOD WEAPONRY HUB.

C?: STILL, KEEP YOUR EYES UP.

C?: ?C AND G? SHOULD BE IN DECENT PROXIMITY SOON.

XT: ok

C?: ...

C?: YOU ALRIGHT?

C?: YOU'RE USUALLY A LOT MORE TALKATIVE OVER CHAT.

C?: WAS IT SOMETHING TO DO WITH THE TETRARCH?

XT: no

XT: i guess

XT: i dont really want to talk about it

C?: ...SORRY.

C?: BUT IF YOU NEED A EAR TO LISTEN TO YOU, I'M HERE, OKAY?

C?: WHATEVER HAPPENED, DON'T BEAT YOURSELF UP OVER IT.

C's idealogy is optimistic, but it doesn't lessen the weight in your stomach as you tuck the palmhusk back into your pocket. You're currently twenty feet in the air, deeply nestled in the branches of a crooked tree.

The base is _enormous._ It's square-cut, with firm corners and sharp lines accenting the scant windows, the walls a colorless palette that flickers in the deeper shadows. Pink and green moonlight slant harshly against the structure. The air's begining to sink into a chill; goosebumps prickle over your limbs, and the leaves rustle mercilessly.

It's not your first scouting mission, but you've never been so up and _close_ to the building before. Usually you're at a fair distance, peering through binoculars or whatnot, but this time you had to be closer to get a better cap on any guard movements. The wood is uncomfortable under your legs and your muscles are cramping from the effort of staying upright. Your physical prowess isn't the worst, really, but even you can't hold this position for too long. You shift from one leg to another, flexing your toes in an attempt to alleviate the strain on your calves.

It's useless.

Your palms are sweaty when you rub them against your pants. You don't know _why_ you're so unnerved -- maybe it's the fact you haven't slept properly with sopor for a long, long time, maybe it's the fact you're emotionally wasting away inside and just _wishing_ for some kind of affection, being the touch-starved whore you are, maybe it's the moonlight blurring into a sickly haze of color as a painful thrumming drums up at the base of your skull. You're _exhausted._ You shouldn't be here for this.

_Then what would you have done? Stayed back in your hive? Let Dammek walk over you again?_

You try not to think of Dammek at all, really.

Right. Information.

You wonder how long it's been since you've squatted here. A has a good grasp on time, really -- she nails down minutes and seconds to an artful precision -- but she's not here with you and you can't exactly contact her at this moment. You wonder when the other two trolls will arrive. They're not as flashy-powerful as A or T, but they're still a formidable force when it comes to pummeling down doors. 

When are they supposed to get here?

XT: when are they supposed to get here?

C?: I DON'T K

C?: FUCK

C?: S RYRY DUD E GOT INCMINNG

You drop the palmhusk like it's on fire. As you reach for it on the branch, you --

_wait._

The night air stills.

Slowly, ever so slowly, you let your fingers brush over your palmhusk, fingers gripping onto damp metal. 

There's someone _below._

You wonder who's down there. You wonder if they're skimming the trees for silhouettes, eyepiece and visors seizing onto how desperately your heart's pounding against your ribs, how a tremor violently shakes through your limbs as you try to regain control of your limbs. 

_One movement, and I'm dead._

Footsteps.

Gog, _fuck,_ they're moving closer to your tree -- had they seen your palmhusk light up? Did they track down your body heat? Did they see you move, see you twitch, did they --

If it's one guard, _if it's just one guard,_ you might be able to take them. Knock them out before they dial in for help. Your hand clenches around your cuebat and you imagine swinging it down on the back of their head -- but it won't be that easy, would it? You'd either hit too lightly and they'll _turn around_ and spill out your guts on the very grass, or you'll hit too hard and they'll -- their skulls would crack, brains spilling down their neck, some higher blood color splattering everywhere like a bucket of paint thrown wildly.

_Breathe._

You take in one quiet long breath, letting the sharp night air cut down into your chest. You're okay. You'll be _okay._ This isn't much worse than the tests the tetrarch sometimes put you through, You've survived worse before. Worst comes to worst, you'll just have to stay up here in this tree for several more hours.

The sounds have stopped.

And that's the only warning you get before something _slams_ into your torso, and then you're falling, a strangled cry trying to escape your throat even as the ground hits your back with the force of a drone. The pain makes you pass out for the briefest of seconds, black and white spots colliding in your vision, but then you remember your training --

_It's for your own good, Xef --_

and your muscles already snap into you leaping up, your cuebat raised, even as a trickle of blood drips from your mouth -- you've _survived worse,_ you repeat those words in your head over and over until you can beat it to paste --

There's _four_ of them.

The first one you managed to strike down; you let your bat _fly,_ and it crunches into her stomach with a sickening splintering of bone and flesh. Dark cyan blood stains your weapon from handle to tip -- if she's high midblood, she should be able to survive the blow -- and the troll crumples like a piece of paper.

One down --

this time you don't even see the blow; it flickers like lightning, catching you on your exposed neck, and the _agony_ feels like your whole body's been pressed in flaming coals. It's not just a blade -- it's some kind of electricity that arcs through your every sinew, pulverizing and disintegrating muscle into raw fibers, and your bones shake violently like jelly in an effort to hold your body together. In several terrifying seconds it feels like a contest between your mind and pure matter; you grit your teeth _hard,_ and whirl around with as much ferocity as you're able to. The gasp of surprise from the greenblood -- _low psionic energy_ \-- tells you he didn't expect you to stay upright from his attack. It's moot, anyhow, and you hit him _once twice thrice_ right in the fucking chest and he hits the grass, still writhing in pain. You're about to strike him on the leg to keep him down, your hands shaking violently --

"Jegus," you hear someone mutter, and then --

You don't even realize you've screamed. All you're aware of is this terrible, _terrible_ hollowness tearing you apart all at once, this -- _void_ \-- clouding up your every senses, dragging you down to an abyss with absolute shadow. You've never paid attention to the voices of the dead, but suddenly they're _right in your ear_ \-- and you're missing plenty, clearly, because it's garbled screams and raw, throat-scraping sobs that have you crumple to your knees, even as it feels like every muscle has constricted around your bones, shattering each into a thousand pieces, and you're no longer flesh and bone -- all you've known is the sensation of pain, of pure agony, of thousands and thousands of voices writhing in your mind. You're being dragged out like a receding tide to some awful place, somewhere cold and dark and deprived of any light, and dimly you're aware that you're digging your claws into your head, trying to _get IT OUT_ \-- 

"Enough," someone's saying, and all at once the voices in your head go silent. You can't even gather enough energy to stay upright, instead just toppling over on the ground like a ragdoll. The other two guards loom over you, blurry silhouettes leering down on you. "Geez, I know you're still training this shit -- you really did a number on him."

Your vision begins to clear, although you're still desperately heaving for breath. You focus on their signs -- their sign _colors_ \--

A _purpleblood._ A gogdamn _purpleblood_ and what appears to be an indigoblood, both staring down at you with a terrible cruelness that makes your stomach clench like a pretzel. 

_Chucklevoodoos._

"We'll have to drag those two inside," the indigoblood's saying, nodding her head to the other two guard trolls. "And this rustblood here -- "

"Kill him?"

"Sure, unless..." the silence that falls makes your heart pound in your throat. "Wait a second -- "

She kicks you onto your back, pressing a foot down on your stomach, and your body reflexively arches up in an attempt to breathe. "Look at his _fucking sign!_ He's not a normal trashblood, you idiot, he's -- "

You try to seize up, to cover your sign with your hands --

"He's the _fucking tetrarch's_ moirail!" The guard's laugh is high, cruel, piercing into your ears like needles. She looks almost manic as she roughly yanks you to her face, her mouth splitting in a deranged grin. "He's worth the whole fucking rebel base! Look at what we _got_ \-- " and she shakes you like you're the catch of the day, jostling you so hard you feel your teeth rattle.

"No culling him, then?" the purpleblood's saying.

"Maybe we could eat 'im," the guard says, still grinning that damn smile. "But -- of course _fucking not,_ we've practically got _gold_ here!" You don't know how much blood is dripping from your face, but she clamps a hand over your mouth and it comes away glistening red. "We can do _so much_ to him, do you even get it -- "

"What's going on?"

You didn't even hear the third set of footsteps. Already the door's opening, more midblood and highblood guards streaming out, but they all seem to fall silence under the ceruleanblood that drifts across the grass. A curtain of hair drapes over her face, her horns twisting up into the sky like bracketed spirals, and both the indigoblood and purpleblood still.

"Ardata," they both say, inclining their heads a little. Some part of you wonders why they're acknowledging a cobaltblood; the other part of you feels like this whole thing's a nightmare, a bloody, surreal nightmare that has your head swimming in a haze. Maybe you could just close your eyes, tilt your head back, fall asleep -- wake up in the recuperacoon, safe and sound, somewhere you won't get hurt. 

"The tetrarch's moirail, is it?"

"Yes."

The three eyes slowly blink at you, scrutinizing your every fiber and cell of your body like you're a fly under a microscopic slide. She tilts her head a little to the side, her tongue sliding along her lips as her gaze falls on your sign, and somehow that sight _chills_ you down to your very toes.

"Give him to me," she says almost sweetly, her lips twisted up into the thinnest of smiles. "I think I know what we can do with him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heads up on next chapter: NOTE THE TAGS. The FOLLOWING CHAPTERS ARE PRETTY MUCH WHY THEY'RE THERE.
> 
> Seriously, upcoming is NOT for the faint of heart.
> 
> Don't forget to leave a comment!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the tags. 
> 
> Additionally: warning for Suicidial Thoughts, Rape Fantasies. 
> 
> Ardata is featured in this chapter! In this AU she's working for the Empire.

You first wake to something crawling down your throat -- it takes a moment for you to realize it's a _tube,_ inserting its way slowly down until it hits your gag reflex. Tears spring to your eyes. Your whole stomach squeezes and clamps, trying to vomit the object back out, and then it withdraws all at once like a slimy worm.

You're on a surface.

It's freezing. You're still wearing the clothes you scouted in, but when you try to raise your arm to inspect yourself your movement's quickly halted by a chain cuff clamped around your wrist. Same with your other wrist and ankles. You're spread-out, bared, unable to see anything except the topmost of your chest. The metal surface underneath your back bites into your shoulder blades and spine. You feel disassociated, almost, observing the details in a detached manner, like you're an outside observer. There's something warm and cloudy suffusing across your thoughts, like you've let yourself submerge deep underwater, and it makes goosebumps prickle over your skin.

"He's awake," someone's saying distantly. You register their voice as vibrations in the air; you _comprehend_ them, but you'd rather focus on how the ceiling light flickers above you, temporarily plunging the room into darkness. You can't even feel your extremeties. 

_I have to be dead._

Strange hands are cupping your face, prying open your mouth, massaging your tongue. You let them. You feel like a toy, laying broken and misused on the ground, your mind somehow not able to reach the nerves of your limbs and sensories. Someone shines a light down your eye, up your nose, and you let yourself sink back into the tiny space of your head. Away from reality.

"I think you've numbed him enough, Ardata."

The laugh that shudders through the room is almost sweet. "I can't wait to see his reaction."

Instantly the haze disappears, like a sudden, receding tide, and the _pain_ \-- it hits you all at once, in the freshness of wounds rent open on your skin and a bone-deep ache in your ribs, and your head reels from a throb that reverberates from the depths of your skull. Every twitch, every moment, sears up into your neck, and you flinch from how desperate your gasp sounds as it tears from your throat. You're trying to breathe -- you're _trying to breathe_ \-- your lungs heaving in air, ice-cold needles stabbing into your chest, air whistling hollowly into your nostrils and mouth. Your legs shake without your volition, one foot slamming against the table edge.

"Are you kidding me?" It's -- _Ardata's_ \-- voice again, still with the melodic tones. "He barely reacted at all! That's no fun."

"He was fairly resilient against my chucklevoodoos as well." A finger pokes at your nose. "He should've been knocked unconscious instantaneously."

"He's not having sopor withdrawal symptoms either." A face floats into your vision -- you recognize the three eyes, the immaculate curtain of hair framing her face, and you try not to shudder as a painted-nail hand strokes your cheek. "He's awake, at least. How you're feeling?"

_I've been captured. I'm fucking captured._

That was the one scenario Dammek had always been terrified of -- at least, that's what he told you -- and the fear rises in your throat, cold and relentless, as the three eyes continue to gaze at you. Her hand is still touching your face, now brushing along your jaw, measuring your pulse. You're all too aware of how easily she can crush your windpipe. She's soaking up your fear, your pulse pounding wildly through your veins, and you think you're starting to shake again.

"Not much of a talker?" Her hand flits up to your horn and _twists._ A white-hot pain erupts in your head, making you gasp softly. "That's unfortunate, is it? Don't you want to tell us things? Have your pretty little mouth -- " a finger traces over your lips before pressing down, the claw puncturing into your flesh -- "give us a bit more? Don't you want that, you _shit_ blood?"

_I can't._ You're loyal. You're _loyal._ You already dread what's about to happen next -- they'll torture you, break you, tear you into pieces -- but you try to shake your head. It feels like banging your skull into a rock. You can endure -- you can _wait._ Hold out long enough for someone to rescue you. For the _tetrarch_ to rescue you.

_Why would he? You're nothing to him. It'd only compromise his mission._ You try to shake the thought away, but it feeds on you, feeds on your doubt, and you realize your eyes are prickling with tears again. Some helpless, broken noise escapes from your mouth. _I can't..._

Ardata's laughter rings like a silvery bell. "You're _adorable,_ you little scum. The point is -- " her hand moves to your chest, over your heart -- "the Empire doesn't need information _about_ your dear moirail. We simply need him to do something for us. Plenty of somethings, really."

You stare blankly up at her.

Then claws _rip_ into your mind -- it's a terrifying second of white-hot pain shuddering down to your very toes, but then it's an endless, sonorous drum pounding harshly into your head, and someone's -- no, _dozens_ \-- laughing, screaming with laughter, even as they pry apart your mind like a platter of meat. Memories. _Memories._ They flit aimlessly in the void you call your mind, and you _feel_ Ardata searching them, laughing at them, at _you,_ scourging your mind so thoroughly even as your body reacts violently, straining against your chains. You -- you _try_ to, you try to twist away, flail in escape, but there's absolutely nowhere to flee. You're stuck in the recesses of your thoughts, an immaculate stone wall closing off your every route, and you're -- _you're_ \--

There's blood cupped in your hands. It's hot, filthy rust trickling down your fingers, and you're watching your fellow rustblood hive _burn._ There's nothing but bones and ashes when you peer at it later, and you think you glimpse the charred structure of their horns --

_Cute,_ a voice whispers in your head, and you curl away, feeling their cold tendrils wrap around your skin -- _but boriiing. Don't you have better secrets, Xefros?_

_No,_ you whimper, but she doesn't stop at all -- hands drench themselves in your mind, pulling out thoughts as effortlessly as if they were ribbons, and -- and -- 

There's someone _screaming,_ someone pleading, a blade cutting into their skin, their horns, you're watching ochre blood steadily drip onto the grass like a faucet and you're _running_ because there's absolutely nothing you can do. There's _nothing_ you can do except flee like the fucking coward you are --

_You're always running,_ Ardata says gleefully. _Always running away. Why don't you stand up like a true troll and just_ fight _them, hm? It couldn't be that hard..._

_Stop,_ you beg. _Please, stop_ \-- but it's futile. It's utterly futile and you know it, and she knows it, and you feel raw, exposed, _vulnerable,_ dredging up memories you've tried so hard to repress, to contain, you don't _know what she wants_ and the darkness looms around you, cutting off your air -- _please please PLEASE let me breathe, please stop --_

All at once she withdraws, and you're breaking out of the depths, your head's breaking through the surface -- your surroundings slowly return to you, your vision misted by tears. You can breathe. You can _breathe._ Your thoughts are your own.

"Save the best for the machine," someone tells her. You hear an _ughh_ sound, and her presence leaves you entirely -- you can feel your skin again, the hardness of the surface underneath your back, the chains encircling your wrists and ankles. Your heartbeat feels like it's been relocated to your eardrums, blood pulsing through each second you're pulling in air to breathe. 

"Sedate him again," someone'e saying, and a sharp prick of pain enters your left shoulder -- you're falling back into the sea again, your senses blotted and cut off, letting yourself plummet.

.

.

.

They don't give you the mercy of letting you sleep.

Maybe it's a boon, actually. The daymares lurk at the border of your consciousness, threatening to sweep in and obliterate every rational thought, but the haze of drugs and the occasional mind probe keep you on the brink. It feels like you haven't slept in days. Sometimes they feed you -- let water trickle past your lips -- but they never remove you from the chains. You don't know what they want from you. You emerge for brief periods of lucidity, sometimes blinking up into a different room's ceiling, and then it's more touches, more caresses, and you're sinking back under, retreating to somewhere where they can't touch you --

_except for her_

and you don't let yourself think at all. You let yourself float in a stupor, your limbs as powerless as puppets, and you don't think of your allies or your rebels 

_or your moirail --_

You scrub the very thought of him away. You can't give yourself the luxury to think about him. If you think about him _she'll_ know, she'll know how you truly feel for him, you can't let anyone know --

You wonder what they're waiting for. It's likely Dammek doesn't even know you're captured, with how little he talks to you these days, and you don't know how much time has passed. All you're aware of is your own heartbeat, slow and sluggish. Once you think of summoning up your psychics, but the brief surge of energy had you choking and coughing until you almost passed out again. You don't try it again. You can _feel_ your body wasting away, shriveling into a wraith, deprived even of basic nutrition. 

_This is how I'm going to die._ You wonder if T can hear your voice now. Would he tell the tetrarch? 

_Would Dammek even give a shit?_

_The Empire doesn't need information,_ Ardata's voice whispers, caressing you intimately. _We simply need him to_ do _something for us._

Maybe they'll blackmail him. Tell him he won't ever have you back unless he calls off the rebellion. Turns himself in. Let himself be executed. You'd laugh if you had the energy; he won't call off something he's been working for his entire life just to retrieve a worthless rustblood, one that _explicitly_ cut him off, refused his touch. Refused his quadrant. Maybe he won't even acknowledge your situation just out of pure spite.

You eat and drink and swallow, and you float. The world is timeless to you. It's times like these that you wonder if you can psychically cut off your own blood flow to your heart, or to your brain, maybe even overload yourself until you burn to a husk. When you're alone in the room -- they know you're not trying to escape, not when you don't even have the strength to lift your arm -- you think about it. You could do it. The pain would be terrible, but the relief that followed...

You let your fist clench, letting heat rise in your brain. You could cook your skull like that. Concentrate each inch of your power onto your nerves; cut off pain receptors first. There's so many ways you can kill yourself with your own powers, you realize. You wonder if Dammek knew.

_He never trained you to be a_ killer, some part of you murmurs.

They won't even know you're dead until they come to feed you again. You have _time._ You have the opportunity.

You --

You close your eyes, trying to think of something pleasant. Your mind, sluggish as it is, automatically drifts to a distant, dizzy memory, one unsullied by Ardata's touch. It's one where you and Dammek were younger, and you had laid your head on his lap, and he had --

_stroked your hair_ \--

You'd think it was a dream, some weird pale fantasy conjured in hallucinations, but now you know it was a concrete memory.

Once, he had loved you like that. The way you were supposed to love, the way you were supposed to treasure and cherish each other until the world ended.

You remember his fingers combing through each lock of your hair, brushing your scalp, your horns. Didn't shove you off or laugh at your vulnerability. Just allowed you to lie there, let him touch you all over --

You let your psychics recede back into your body, diluting among your blood vessels.

You _can't._

Your heart aches.

.

.

.

"Is he lucid?"

You haven't heard _her_ voice in days; instinctively, your body stiffens, your fingers trembling, but she stands outside the radius of your periphery vision. Other footsteps come to your side. Someone opens your mouth and checks inside again, presumably to see you haven't bitten your tongue off -- you've contemplated it, but your teeth are too flat -- and someone else measures your heartrate. You let yourself be trollhandled and explored. You haven't tried fighting back at all; you're too _tired_ to, this bone-deep weariness that seeps into every fiber of your muscle until it feels like you're paralyzed.

"Yeah. He's doing well, actually." You'd laugh if you could.

"Any response from the tetrarch yet?"

"Nope." You're _moving;_ apparently you've been strapped onto some rolling table the whole time, wheels squeaking and scraping across the linoleum. Their voices carry alongside you. "Honestly, I don't think he even knows his poor ol' moirail's gone missing."

"Hmph." Lights flash overhead as you're being wheeled down a corridor; you let the words sink into your head, your stomach twisting. "He'll know soon enough."

"Yes, miss Carmia."

A gust of cooler air wafts over your face. You've entered a different room; the ceiling is much higher, almost twice the height as the other rooms, and the temperature is definitely chillier. Your table creaks as it slows down to a stop, and then they're wresting the chains off of your wrists, your ankles. Your body hangs as limp as a corpse's. Someone's dragging you across the floor, the first change of position you've had in a long time, and you blearily observe your clothes leaving stains of mud and blood across the tiles. They effortlessly lift you onto a --

It's another surface, similar to the table, except this time someone chains your hands together to what feels like a pole behind your head. It feels like you've been seated onto an inclined ramp, your legs spread apart by another set of cuffs. A slow, coil of fear simmers in your gut.

"Is this enough?"

You try glancing down -- this time you're able to gaze all the way to your feet. Your clothes are so caked in filth they're practically melted grey, soft fabric clinging to your skin uselessly. Apparently, the fabled _machine_ consists of a pole and a ramp. You can't slide your arms over the height of your head; whatever chains you to the pole appears to be stuck on the structure. You can't lift your foot more than a few inches off the ramp either. Still, you don't see any blades or spikes, just a few clawlike structures protruding from the edges. Maybe it'll just batter you until you're a puddle of blood.

_Better than nothing._

There's the screech of a chair dragging across the tiles. You glance forward, and it's Ardata patiently seating herself in front of you, her head cocked to the side. All three eyes blink innocently at you.

The smile she gives you is your only warning.

Then the claws _rise_ \-- they lift into the air, and you don't even have time to shout before one of them clamps over your face -- still allowing you to breathe through your nose -- but muffling your mouth. Another splays its hard, relentless weight against your sternum, pinning your torso in place. The last claw reaches down, and you feel it brushing your thigh --

_No, no,_ NO --

It's not so much as touching your groin as splaying its parts across it, but your body still seizes up in pain. You wonder if it's going to be shoved up your nook, or even your waste chute, and you squeeze your eyes shut -- preparing yourself for that terrible pain --

_Electricity_ rips through you.

You can't even scream properly; the claw across your mouth silences your voice, making it into a series of choked gargles instead, but the pain never ceases. You've _never_ felt so much agony all at once, the way tendrils _shear_ through your every bone and sinew like nothing, making your muscles contract and loosen so violently that your eyes roll back into your skull. Your stomach heaves, shudders, vomit trying to rise in your throat, and you _taste_ it on the back of your tongue, trying to expel itself out of your mouth -- the claw on your face clamps _harder,_ and you can't, you can't, you try to wrench your hips away from the electricity, but the pressure on your chest pins you in place. Your legs feel like they've been utterly liquified. Pain racks through every nerve in your chest, straight up to your brain, and your mind shuts down for a second to spare you the pain.

_Really,_ a voice chides you, a voice horrifyingly similar to Ardata's, _you don't have any refuge up there, sweetheart. Everything of you belongs to_ us.

Her psychics _tear_ you apart. All at once it feels like sparks go off in your very skull, battering against brain and tissue and bone, like something just exploded behind your eyes. It's all in your head -- _it's all in your head_ \-- and yet, coupled with the physical agony your body's crumpling under, the pain is amplified twofold. You try to reach back to reality, only to be buffered by wracks of pain arcing up your torso, trying to escape your mind but you _can't,_ and you're dimly aware of how you're trying to slam your head against the surface of the ramp, trying to disloge her mental claws --

_There's so many ways to break down a_ _troll,_ Ardata says conversationally to you, squeezing and wringing your brain like a towel. The coppery scent of blood leaking from your nostrils overwhelms you. _I can squish your brain until you become catatonic. This machine can break your body until you're nothing but charred meat._ You can almost imagine her licking her lips. _Or..._

The electricity dies down a little. Your body spasms violently, trying to rid itself of the pain. You don't even know how many types of fluid coat your face. You're breathing desperately through your nose, blood trickling from your older wounds, and you think you can smell your clothes burning. The ceiling swims hazily above you, the light blinding.

_There's so many ways,_ she repeats to you, the pressure on your mind easing a little. Still present, still lingering, combing for something more personal. More treasured. _What if..._

There's a low humming of circuits, and to your horror you realize the claw at your crotch is starting up again, tiny tendrils of electricity stinging your skin from overstimulation. Your thighs quiver a little, even as your body begins to react diametrically opposite -- you _recognize_ the coil of warmth in your gut from anywhere, from _that night,_ from the way Dammek touched your bulge, your nook, your heartrate speeding up again and this foreign warmth flushing up to your neck. Your stomach twists again, but this time in a completely different sensation. Your nook flutters from the sensation. Ardata's dredging up memories again, not so much as tearing it out as _coaxing_ it, letting it rise on its own, and as the current increases you let yourself be assailed in the swamp of feelings. Pain and pleasure clash in your innards, your back arching from the stimulation, and you faintly realize there's no longer any claw pressing down on your sternum. Your hips thrust lightly, mindlessly in the air, seeking friction, but the electricity is _amplified_ through your every vessel and _desire, agony,_ is compounded, a broken sob tearing through your throat. 

Ardata never relents. You're remembering _him_ now, the way he touched you, the way he fucked you, and the agony blurs your fantasies and memories into something indistinguishable -- the voltage increases, your spine shuddering from the pain, and you truly, desperately _sob,_ trying to relieve yourself of the mounting pleasure, the incomprehensible pain, your mind terrifying and wonderful all at once as it constricts around your conscious thought, violence and pleasure translating into lust -- and you imagine it's _him_ hunched over you, choking you, and you relish his fingers digging into your throat. He's fucking you against the wall like last time, except it's your face pressed against it and his hands are possessive around your hips and he _thrusts_ into you like you're an animal, a sex toy, and you're clawing at empty air and you feel him pulse deep into your gene bladder, making your stomach feel bloated. He's got you tied to the bed, just like you are now, but he's facefucking you. You let your tongue plunge deep into his folds, feeling material coat all over your lips, him wresting at your horns violently and not even letting you up to breathe. You _want_ him to force you, to take away any of your choice in the matter. You want him to own you, to claim you, to have your body be an utter puppet for him, _anything_ for him and his desires. The arousal spikes sharply into your gut, your throat raw and sore, but you _can't stop your thoughts_ \-- it's a dam broken, your repressed fantasies shocked into genuine, painful desires. You're deepthroating his bulge, letting it curl into your gag reflex every single fucking time, and he's grabbing your hair and forcing himself even deeper. You're on your hands and knees and he's thrusting himself hard into your waste chute, stuffing his fingers into your mouth when you scream and plead hoarsely in pain. His kisses would be rough, him practically spitting in your mouth, and you wonder how he would taste after he's done using you --

You don't even know the claw's lifted from your mouth until you hear his name shuddering from your lips, like a prayer, a mantra, your whole body violently contorting and twisting. Your bulge is straining in your pants, fluid trickling down your thighs, the pulse of your nook making you throw back your head and moan louder. It's a series of meaningless, mindless noises that crash in your ears, half screams and gasps from pain, half moans and pleas to _keep going, don't stop,_ his name familiar on your teeth, your tongue, wishing above all else that it was him doing this to you right now, making you hurt and love at the same time. Your psychics _flare_ under your skin, sharpening the sensations into razor edges. You're _desperate_ for him. You're gone for him.

When you come, it feels like your whole body got struck by a train.

For a deadly moment every fucking muscle seizes up rock-hard, your heartrate accelerating madly, and then you're gasping out his name so desperately and it _rings_ in the room, echoing off the walls. Nothing on Alternia can stop you from shuddering through your orgasm, letting pulse after pulse of material stian your clothes, your bulge twisting painfully, the final jolt of electricity making you froth at the mouth. You're actively sobbing now, your wrists and ankles sore from how much you've pulled against the chains. Tears and sweat and drool slobber messily down your jaw.

Your head reels from a cloud of pain; you can barely keep your eyes open now, and the emotions that threaten to choke you fade out into a distant dullness. The claw on your crotch retreats, gets lifted off, and then hands are touching you and your skin tingles. Someone's roughly wiping at your face.

"Wow," you hear Ardata, and an almost terrified laugh titters out of her. "Wow, that's -- that's _incredible,_ Tritoh. That was -- " you hear her hands clapping -- "that was the best _fucking show_ of my life." 

You barely register her words. You hear a single _beep_ sound, but you don't bother to let your mind linger on it -- you let your senses close off, finally allowing yourself the mercy of falling into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Ouch.
> 
> Yeah, this was intense as hell to write. Sorry not sorry -_-


End file.
